


Missing Months, Missing Time

by TheThirdTemptationOfParis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, HLV, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, have fun with whatever this is, missing months
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 02:34:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11118081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdTemptationOfParis/pseuds/TheThirdTemptationOfParis
Summary: “Sherlock.” He made his voice firm and Sherlock looked down at his hands, which seemed a little lost in the alabaster sheets. John grabbed one on impulse and pulled it back to his chest, “Look at me. I’m not upset with you. Not at all. You have such a kind heart and you tried to save my marriage. A marriage that was already doomed from the start, I might say. Your heart is so big, Sherlock Holmes, and I think it’s time that I relieve you for a while.”In the months between Sherlock's being shot and Christmas, he and John have a much needed conversation and coming-to-terms.





	Missing Months, Missing Time

John glared at Mary over the collapsed body of his best friend as the paramedics rushed to stabilize him. His chest rose and fell faster than the tremor in Sherlock’s hand, faster than the time they were losing standing there. Her face was emotionless, not a crack in the facade. In that moment, he despised her, despised her more than he ever loved her. This liar is killing the most important person in his life and all she could do was stare.

One of the paramedics looked up at him as they lifted Sherlock from the floor, “Sir? Would you like to ride along?” John shook himself back to reality and nodded, following them down the stairs, eyes on Sherlock the entire time. When he hopped into the back of the ambulance, his immediate thought was to grasp Sherlock’s hand tightly in his own and never let go, but instead he sat back against the walls and said, “Easy on the morphine. He has a past with drugs.”

He didn’t have the strength after that. He collapsed in his seat and folded in on himself, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s now still body. There was a long road ahead of them, that he could see, but it was going to start with John finally grabbing ahold of his common sense. When Sherlock woke up, well all this was done, it was time for them to have a conversation.

***

Sherlock woke up in a blind panic a few hours later. John was half asleep in the uncomfortable plastic chair when he heard him thrashing and calling out for him, “John? John!”

He stood and clambered to the side of the bed, sitting on it, gently grasping Sherlock’s wrist, “Hey, sh, sh, sh. It’s alright, Sherlock, it’s alright.” John brushed the fringe of curls back from Sherlock’s eyes and let his hand linger on the side of his face, stroking his cheekbone slowly, “Hey, sh, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. I promise.”

Sherlock had stilled and was looking up at John with wide, terrified eyes, and it broke John’s heart to no end, “I thought you were--she had you and I couldn't do anything. John. Please, please, please don't go. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, John.”

John kept stroking Sherlock's cheekbone and looked down at him fondly, “It was just a dream, sweetheart. Just a dream. I'm right here, see? Alive and right next to you.” He pulled Sherlock's hand to his chest, right over his heart so he could feel the beats, “See? Right here.”

John had realized what he said, but didn't reel himself back. It was said. It was in the open and Sherlock didn't flinch. He gripped the front of John's shirt tightly in an attempt to pull him closer, but John resisted, “John please. Please, just… please.”

John swept his finger under Sherlock's fringe again, tracing the lines on his forehead, “You're still hurt, baby. Not yet. I don't want to hurt you. Not more than I already have. But I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere,” Sherlock whined a bit in protest at John's resistance, but settled slightly, “I'm right here and I will be. I promise. Go back to sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up.” John leaned down and kissed Sherlock’s hairline lightly. He relaxed a bit more, and, under John's soft ministrations, fell asleep. 

***

He woke again, deep in the night, nearly half four, and John was ready for it. His chair was pulled up beside the bed, his hand in Sherlock's, which was caught in a death grip. Sherlock was shaking, eyes closed, face contorted. John cupped his jaw, “Easy, love, easy. Wake up for me, come on, let me see those eyes of yours,” It takes Sherlock a moment, but those storm gray eyes fix on him in the near-dark of the room. John instantly pulls Sherlock’s hand to his chest so he can feel the steady beats there, “Hey, you. Sh. S’alright, s’alright.” He crooned as if he was approaching a wounded animal. Sherlock looks up at him, just as wide-eyed as before.

“John… why are you still here? Shouldn’t you be home with Mary? She’s your wife, and she’s pregnant and you should--”

John shook his head slowly, his knuckles grazing Sherlock’s cheek, “Do you think you can sit up for me for a bit? I think it’s time we have a long overdue talk. Could you do that?” Sherlock nods and removes his hand from John’s chest to elevate himself. He looks at John, expectant, but terrified, waiting for John to start, “You know exactly why I’m here. She shot you, Sherlock. You were dead on the table, your heart stopped. I was there. I thought I had lost you, but you came back. And the other day I thought I lost you again. But now you’re here, and so am I, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock looked and him with such intensity, trying to find the words, “I came back for you. You have to know that. I will always come back for you. But I thought… I thought I could never have you. I came back from being away and she was there and you were angry and I knew that I could never have you. So I went through with your wedding, stood by your side, and opened my heart to an entire room of people. I offered to help. I cleared her name. I--”

“No, stop, don’t you dare. I know you have an amazing brain, Sherlock, but there is no way, no, don’t look at me like that, no way in hell you could see anything around you after you got shot. None of what you told me is true.” John interrupted, looking back at him.

“John…”

“Sherlock.” He made his voice firm and Sherlock looked down at his hands, which seemed a little lost in the alabaster sheets. John grabbed one on impulse and pulled it back to his chest, “Look at me. I’m not upset with you. Not at all. You have such a kind heart and you tried to save my marriage. A marriage that was already doomed from the start, I might say. Your heart is so big, Sherlock Holmes, and I think it’s time that I relieve you for a while.” Sherlock looked down again, and John knew it was to hide tears, “Look at me, love. I think it’s time we let this be over now, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s eyes were streaming tears when he looked up at John, but he was smiling. A smile so bright it could have lit the entirety of London and more, “John, do you mean…?” he stopped short, choking on the words a bit. John’s eyes had started streaming tears as well and he pulled Sherlock as close as he could.

“Yes baby, I do. I love you. I love you so much. It’s over now. It’s over. Sh, love, I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’m not leaving. I promise. Sh… sh… sh…”

“I love you John. I love you. Please, stay.”

“Of course, love. Sleep, now. I’ll be here when you wake up.” John adjusted Sherlock to a flat, lying position and watched over him until he fell back asleep.

***

John was next to wake up in a blind panic. Not an easy thing to do in a near-silent hospital wing in a plastic chair, but when he wakes up to his hand being empty, his vision blurs. “Sherlock?” He looks at the bed to find it empty and he stands, nearly crashing to his knees, “Sherlock?”

The man himself carefully maneuvers out of the en suite loo and John nearly launches at him, reaching him and softly wraps his arms around him, Sherlock’s hands coming into his hair, soothing, “Hey now, darling, it’s okay. I’m right here. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to wake you. It’s alright, love, I’m alright. What happened?” He whispered softly to John, calmly rocking them on their feet.

“I thought she was here and I woke up to you gone and please, god, don’t ever do that to me again. Please. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you again.”

“Okay, love. Okay. I’m alright. We’re alright. Sh, I’ve got you.”

John marveled at how the endearments slipped from him in this state and gripped him a little tighter, hands running up his back to splay over his shoulder blades. “You scared the hell out of me, you ridiculous man. Never be afraid of waking me. You could’ve have fallen and then where would we be?”

“John, I’m perfectly capable of walking across a room. I succeeded, didn’t I?” He pulled back a bit and looked John over. He kissed the crease between his brow, smoothing it out, “Don’t look like that. I’m alright.” He maneuvered them back to the bed and pulled John down with him, not caring how small the bed was, not caring how much they had to contort to fit. The closer he was to John, the better.

“There was still a chance. There’s always a chance.” John hadn’t argued with being pulled into the bed and had surrendered, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist. He needed him to be closer. He wanted them to be home. He wanted out of this damn hospital room but it was for Sherlock’s benefit. He knew that much.

Sherlock pulled back, looked down at John, then slatted his mouth over his, “You worry far too much, my love. Far too much,” he whispered against John’s lips, and John smiled, rubbing their noses together lightly.

“Never took you to be one for pet names, love. Saying them, at least.”

“I won’t do it all the time, only when it seems like you need it. And you seemed like you needed it when you woke up. If it makes you uncomfortable, I certainly don’t have to. It’s just… you started using them to comfort me. I just thought I could do the same for you.” He shrugged, looking down, a bit sheepish.

John smiled and placed their foreheads together, “Dear man, good heart, I love you. How anyone can ever think you cold and unfeeling is absolutely, completely ridiculous. How on earth can they not see the truth?”

Sherlock cast his eyes down again and was half tempted to pull away, “You didn’t see it. Not for a while, at least. Though I guess I was trying rather hard to convince you. I wanted you to like me, yet I kept pushing you away. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“None of that now. We’re not those people anymore. Let’s just get some rest and get you better so we can go home, yeah?” John’s finger traced his jawline and he nodded, falling asleep, finally, with John’s breath on his skin.

***

It took two and a half agonizing weeks to get back home. They had both gone stir crazy and had their first argument within the walls of the hospital room. It was hard to remember who started it, but it hurt all the same. 

John thinks it may have been a joke. It might’ve been intended to be one, but it struck such a tight chord that he just snapped, “If you hadn’t gotten married we could be home right now,” Sherlock had said, reading one of John’s old medical journals in the bed. John had dropped the book he had been reading to his lap and sat stock-still. 

“What did you say?” he asked, still stunned.

“If you hadn’t gotten married, especially to her, we could be home right now.”

John chuckled humorlessly, “Oh, that’s rich coming from you, seeing as you’re the one that left first. If you hadn’t jumped we could’ve been home for months, years even.” Why were they having this fight? Were they really going to play the ‘who left first?’ game? But John was unable to keep his mouth shut about it, it had been brewing in him for so long.

Sherlock looked up at him, his small smile fading from his lips, and John wished to reel back what he’d said. He never wanted to hurt him, “John, that’s not fair. You know that’s not fair. I did it, all of it, for you, and I came back and I couldn’t have you. Do you realize how much of a stab that was?”

“Sherlock, I had to watch you die. You jumped off a building right in front of me. Do you realize how much of a stab that was? We could have had all of this so much sooner, but you left. And now…”

Sherlock was still looking at him with that gaze that burned more than anything, and John shifted under it, “If you’re regretting it John, you can go. If that’s what you really want.”

“And where the hell would I go then? I have no home to go back to!”

“Go back to your wife, John! I don’t care! She’s what you wanted in the first place!” 

John stood up, full of rage, and looked down at the man in the bed. He loves him. He does, but he needs a minute. Or a few hours. He dropped his book in his chair, turned towards the door, and walked out. He could hear Sherlock’s sobs as he rounded the corner, pulling taut on his heart, but he didn’t turn around. He needed to clear his head.

***

He walked around London for three hours, finally circling back around to Baker Street. He went up to their flat and just… looked. This was home to John. This is where he wanted to spend his nights, whether it be upstairs in his room like days of old or pressed against Sherlock side in his room. This is where he laughed his hardest like that first night after their first chase. And this is where he cried his hardest during nights when flashbacks to the worst parts of the war caught up with him in nightmares. Even then, he would wake up to a soft melody from the living room. Sherlock, listening, caring, soothing him.

John sat down in his chair and put his head in his hands. He was messing things up, being away from Sherlock. He knew that now. He belonged by Sherlock’s side, in whatever way the man wanted him. He knew he had made a mistake. They didn’t need to have that fight. It was useless. It didn’t matter who left first because they were here now and that’s all they could ask for. John stood up, shook his shoulders back, and walked out of the flat and back to Bart’s.

When John got back to Sherlock’s room, he expected him to be irate, but Sherlock just looked defeated and tired. He was laying back on the pillows looking up at the ceiling, staring. He wasn’t in his mind palace, that much John could tell, so he walked up, sat on the side of the bed, and took Sherlock’s hand, entwining their fingers together, kissing the knuckles, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking earlier. Can you ever forgive me and my dense skull?” He pulled their hands apart and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s palm, “It doesn’t matter who left first because we’re both here now and that’s all that matters.”

Sherlock remained unresponsive for a few agonizing minutes. John crawled carefully into the bed and tucked his head into Sherlock’s neck, kissing it lightly, “Say something, baby. Let me know you’re still with me. Even if it’s to tell me to go away again. Even if you want to tell me to fuck off and never come back. Please, Sherlock, anything you can give me.”

Sherlock collapsed into John, pulled him closer by the hip, and cried. Really, wholly and truly cried, “I thought you were never going to come back. I thought I had lost you forever because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry.”

John shook his head, shifting to pull Sherlock into his lap, hand carding through his hair, “Sh, sweetheart, sh. Not your fault. Not your fault at all. I could never leave you, you know that. Not if I had to get pulled out by my hair could I leave you. I’m not going back to her. I’m not leaving you. Not after all the time I wasted wanting you, needing you, waiting for you.”

“I love you, John. More than I can say. I’m sorry.”

The next day they went home. And six months later, Sherlock shot Charles Augustus Magnussen in the head.

***

John sat across from Sherlock in an interrogation room. Mycroft had made sure they could see each other without surveillance, the one good thing he’d done for them. “I can’t fix this, Sherlock. I really, truly can’t fix this.” Their hands were entwined on the cold metal table, Sherlock’s handcuffed to the ring in the middle of the table. 

“I know you can’t, darling. I’m not asking you to. I’m just asking you to wait this out, okay? Make her believe you. Stay on course until the baby is born, and we’ll go from there.” Sherlock’s thumbs were sweeping across John’s knuckles, rhythmic and grounding.

“But I want to fix it. I want so badly to fix it. You saved us. That’s all you did. You shouldn’t be held captive because of it. You’re not an animal. You’re not dangerous.” John felt tears pricking the back of eyes and gripped Sherlock’s hands a bit tighter.

“Alright, love, alright. Sh… We’re going to be alright, I promise.”

John laughed without humor, “You can’t promise that.”

“I can.”


End file.
